


I'm Lucky, I'm Lucky

by joycecarolnotes



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fisting, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 05:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21221351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joycecarolnotes/pseuds/joycecarolnotes
Summary: The luckiest dorks in Palo Alto.





	I'm Lucky, I'm Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Happy season six premier week! Here's some emotional pornography, mostly for the immensely delightful a_bit_not_good_yeah. Please share your s6 Jared thoughts with me at joycecarolnotes on tumblr :)

Richard never tires of watching Jared undress.

The fastidious way he toes off his loafers. His careful, deft fingers as they remove his watch. Richard loves the journey Jared's large and milk-white hands make, from top shirt button to bottom, from belt buckle to zipper to button, the path of his pressed khakis as they slide down his long legs. He can't even _explain_ what it does to him when Jared has on one of his sensible little sweater vests. 

Now, Jared pulls his undershirt over his head, revealing the pale, hairless chest beneath it, exposing that secret indentation Richard longs to press his hot face to. Richard almost wants to cry, thinking of the first time he saw Jared's naked chest, and how Jared told him he'd once been so ashamed of it. The tattered winter coat he wore all summer long, the summer he was fourteen years old, to obscure the shape of his body. Sweating under the sugar maples of a warm Pennsylvania summer. 

_How_, Richard wonders, often indignant. _How does Jared not know he's beautiful? And if he thinks that_ he's _so ugly, how can he possibly be attracted to me?_

_I mean_, thinks Richard, _I'm pretty much a fucking gremlin_. 

Jared stands at the side of the bed in only his white cotton underwear. He slips his thumbs beneath the waistband and slides them to his feet. Richard never tires of this either: of knowing what Jared wears under his clothes, the scar on his hip, of seeing Jared naked, growing hard between his legs.

_A very, very, ridiculously lucky fucking gremlin._

Richard thinks of all the years he spent hiding from this part of himself, trying to outlast or outrun or outwit it, going without, keeping busy, always busy, so he would never have time to want anything else. All the lonely nights he spent, watching _Cruising_ or gay porn on his laptop on mute and in secret, home with his parents after his fall from grace at Stanford, dying to know what it felt like to touch a dick that wasn't his own.

Now, Richard thinks, with gratitude, he's allowed to stare. He's _supposed_ to stare. He's allowed to look at Jared hungrily. He's allowed to ask, "Jared, baby, hey? can I go down on you," as he shifts to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He's allowed to moan, and lick his lips. He's allowed to want Jared, openly.

Richard holds Jared's hand while he does it. Jared confided once, early on, "having that"—whispered: "fellatio"—"done to me can sometimes feel awfully lonely." Sometimes, Jared said, he forgot where he was, what year it was, that he wasn't in genuine danger. Sometimes he drifted from his body, found himself observing an encounter from above. Richard squeezes messages into his hand in morse code, so Jared knows he's not alone now. So he remembers they are here, together. 

\--- -.- .- -.-- ..--..

(Okay?)

Jared squeezes back:

-.-- . ...

(Yes)

..-. .. -. .

(Fine) 

Richard memorized the International Morse Code for a seventh grade social studies project; Jared, at the paramilitary boys' camp where he spent some of his formative years.

_Heh_, thinks Richard. _If poor sad losery twelve year old Bitch-ard Hen-dicks could see me now_.

Sometimes he wishes they'd known each other back then. Maybe he could've figured out some things sooner, been less pathetic and lonely. Maybe, with Jared taking care of him all this time, he could've been less of an irreparable fuck-up. Somehow, Richard thinks, as he hollows out his pallid cheeks and draws Jared's dick—long and slender, cut and finely-shaped, and somehow, in a way Richard can't quite understand or explain, elegant—deeper into his mouth, he missed this weird, wonderful man before he even met him. 

_Jesus christ you're so fucking corny now_, thinks Richard. Not-so-secretly he loves it. Secretly he likes to think some of Jared's innate, bizarrely-innocent goodness must have rubbed off on him. 

Richard squeezes:

.--. . .-. ..-. . -.-. -

(Perfect) 

He reaches his free hand down to cup Jared's balls. He loves the velvety skin, the weight of them against his palm, loves the way Jared moans when he rolls them tenderly between his fingers. He slips his hand back further, further, and the tips of his dry fingertips nudge lightly against Jared's rim. Richard knows that penetration isn't often on the menu, but still he thrills at knowing what he feels like, at getting to touch Jared in such an intimate place. Jared moans and gasps.

_You get to_ know _this_, Richard thinks, prideful, almost haughtily. _You get to_ hear _this. You—Richard Hendricks—get to know what this is like with him._

-.-. .- -. .. ..--..

(Can I?) 

Jared begins to answer "yes, darling, you have my permission" but his voice breaks into a long, low moan halfway through the sentence, as Richard briefly pulls off and then grazes the points of his sharp teeth over the length of him. 

"Ah! Oh lord," Jared shouts. 

Jared likes a smidge of danger, he likes it when it hurts a little. He likes it when Richard asks him first; he likes to know that _no_ is on the table. Jared's long fingers clutch the back of Richard's head, tangling in his hair. He shakes, and sobs, and Richard greedily treasures it. 

"Oh! Ah, ah, oh my goodness, Richard darling, oh I'm - "

Richard loves this part so much. 

\--. --- --- -..

(Good)

-.. --- .. -

(Do it)

-... .- -... -.--

(Baby)

-. --- .--

(Now)

Jared wails, high and long, and Richard feels the pride swell in his chest, the way it always does when Jared comes when ordered, the heady rush of power and control. Jared's hips jerk helplessly forward. "Oh goodness, Richard," he cries, through shouts and gasps and laughter, "you've undone me," and his fingers dig pleasantly into Richard's scalp as his come fills Richard's mouth.

Richard's plenty practiced now; he knows how not to choke. He can't help but feel a little smug about it.

He smirks to himself, clutching Jared's hand and squeezing:

-.-- . .- ....

(Yeah)

"Darling," Jared sighs, and he wraps Richard in his arms, and pulls him down to curl up in bed beside him. Richard thinks he hears him sniffle; sometimes, he knows, when Jared comes, he cries. It's another data point plotted on his map of Jared. Another piece in his odd jigsaw puzzle of a boyfriend. And Richard is desperate for knowledge; he wants to memorize Jared outside and in. 

"Thank you," Jared whispers, into Richard's hair. "Thank you for not leaving me alone up there."

_You get to _do _this_, Richard thinks. _You get to love him. You get to make him feel_—he considers Jared's blissful, at-peace expression, the quiet hum he makes as he enjoys the warm, giddy, weak-kneed elation of his afterglow, trembling slightly, how happy and relieved he looks with the emotional and physical release—_like that. You get to treat him better than anyone else on the planet did._

_Not_, Richard thinks, a bit self-deprecatingly, _that there was a lot of competition in that department._

_Lucky for you_, Richard thinks. 

When his trembling stops, Jared kisses Richard. He turns Richard onto his stomach, gets up on his knees behind him, and runs his fingers up the crack of his ass. He leans down to press one soft kiss to it.

Richard can hardly believe he gets to have this, and that he hasn't somehow, as yet, fucked it up. 

_I'm lucky_, he thinks, _I'm lucky_. 

_The luckiest fucking gremlin in Palo Alto._

**

Richard Hendricks leaves his socks on. 

It's the small details, like this one, that amaze and delight Jared to no end. It's unfathomable to think that he could ever tire of it: the closeness, the intimacy, of knowing Richard so fully. Of being his partner, his COO, his first mate, his lover, his companion, his confidant and friend.

Jared likes that Richard leaves his socks on. He likes it when Richard murmurs prime numbers in his sleep, or when—making up the bed together, laughing—Richard wraps the quilt around his shoulders like a robe befitting his nobility, and recites passages from _The Name of the Wind_. Jared likes it when Richard snuggles his too-warm body against his, and when Richard drools oddly-shaped marks onto his freshly-laundered, lavender-scented pillowcase. He finds traces of Richard on himself when they're not together—sweet breaths of his scent, like freshly-sharpened pencils—and thinks that he must be the luckiest man on earth.

Jared reels with gratitude in the hazy aftermath of his pleasure. He feels bowled over, still, to be cared for by Richard, to have it made clear that Richard invests in his well-being, just as Jared makes it his life’s work to invest in his. After all, Jared is used to being the one who loves more and is loved less, to begging for the meagerest scraps of attention, to tolerating maltreatment for the right not to be alone.

For it to have happened so many times—_for you to have _let it _happen so many times_, he thinks—well, surely there must be a sound reason for it. Some weakness, some defect, something in his face, perhaps. Some unfortunate, revealing feature that life's crueler people sought out. _Guide me_, it said, or _shape me_, or _bend me_, or _hurt me_, and would-be leaders sensed how Jared longed to follow. 

He doesn't have to be that now, he thinks. Not with dear, wonderful Richard, the master at getting consent.

Richard is presently face-down on Jared's bed, naked but for his tube socks. He'd rushed through disrobing, as he usually did, intemperate and eager, scattering his soiled clothes across the floor. Jared slides a finger through the cleft of him. He leans down to kiss Richard's shapely backside.

"Do you think we, ah," Richard broaches the topic shyly, his face tucked into his arms, scarlet to the tips of his ears. "Um, Jared?" 

"Yes?" 

"Would you want to, um. Tonight maybe? Fist me?"

Jared blushes. "Sweetheart," he says, "I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but oh don't you think my hands are - " 

"I love your fucking hands," Richard interjects. "I mean. You know that." 

Jared acknowledges bashfully, "I do." 

"And I want this. I've thought about this. I want - _this_. With just you. Jared. I want it to be _your_ hand.”

He sounds so sure of himself, so seductively confident, in his body's ability to do this. _Gosh but he is sexy_, Jared thinks, _when he gets an idea in his head_. (_Not that Richard isn't always sexy!_, he quickly, scoldingly, self-corrects.) How lucky Jared feels—how lucky he _is_—to have Richard express his desires to him. He relishes this sign of Richard's ever-growing comfort with their intimacy, something they've held close and protected, like a baby bird before it leaves its nest. 

Jared has always been self-conscious of his hands, of his body, large and inconvenient as it is. Of the ways that he's intruded, unwanted, into other people's space. But, he thinks, if Richard truly wants this...

Jared starts with his mouth, then adds a finger. He works slowly, diligently, and with plenty of scent-free, hypoallergenic lubricant, until Richard accommodates three. "That's it," he breathes, encouragingly. 

"Yeah, yeah. Jared?" Richard pants. "Talk to me?"

"Of course. What would you like to discuss?" 

"Discuss - what? I don't - I don't care - you know, it's - I just wanna hear your voice. Fuck, babe. Honestly? You could, like, recite descriptions from your bird guide if you wanted to. Tell me one of those fucked up _Struwwelpeter_ stories again.”

So Jared talks, and talks—rambling on, the way he sometimes does, hardly aware what he's saying, except that it is loving and honest—while he gives Richard time to adjust. Jared adds another healthy dose of lubricant, and gently eases his little finger in. "Oh gosh." He feels almost speechless, breathless. "Oh Richard, dear I'm - " 

"Fuck. How many is that?" Richard, as always, wants to keep track. 

"Four. Four of my fingers. Darling, I'm so proud, you're doing so well." Jared looks down at Richard, and an idea—a desire—begins to form in his head. "Hmm," he sighs wistfully, "I wonder." 

A long, thoughtful pause hangs between them. Richard asks, "wonder what?" 

Jared reminds himself that if he wants something he need only ask for it, that Richard won't make him feel embarrassed or too needy or ashamed. Richard, in fact, relishes the desperation with which Jared's always wanted him. The worst that can happen is Richard says no, and that Jared learns one of his limits, and each new thing he learns of Richard is a tremendous, miraculous gift. 

"I know this position might be most logical for what we're attempting here, but I wondered if you might turn onto your back for me? I'd like to see your face before I, well."

"Uh huh."

It takes some careful maneuvering, but soon Richard is on his back in the center of the bed, a pillow beneath his hips, his knees bent. His curls rest against Jared's pillow like a halo, and Jared thinks he looks like an angel sent for him. Jared kneels between Richard's legs, fingers knuckle-deep inside him, and smiles down at him placidly. He pets his side. He leans in close and says, against his ear, "you know you don't have to prove anything. Not with me.”

"I know, I know," Richard promises.

"And we can stop here if you want to." 

"I know, I know." Richard smiles, bares his teeth. "And I still want this." 

"Okay, deep breath. Now, bear down for me," Jared coaxes, gently, and when Richard is ready for him, he eases his thumb in. It's so hot, so tight, so all-encompassing, as Richard stretches around his knuckles. Looking down at the scene, at his own large hand, his bony wrist, at Richard's body, at the place where they're conjoined, Jared has never felt more fortunate. How lucky he is, he thinks, to have Richard—Richard!—here with him in his bedroom, to have Richard here in his life. 

"Oh." Jared's voice cracks. Emotion swells inside him. He feels like he's a dam about to burst. "I'm - Richard, sweetheart, I'm inside you. My, my, my goodness - my hand is inside your body." 

"Fuck! Fuck," Richard cries, thrashing back against the pillows, "holy fucking shit babe, you're so - it's so - I'm so - it's so fucking _much_." 

"Is it not - ?" Jared frowns. He's tried so hard all his life not to be too much. "Should I - do you want me to stop?"

"No no no no. Jared. Never. Don't you - don't you fucking dare." 

There are tears in Jared's eyes. "Thank you. Oh thank you. My darling." Jared smiles. He strokes the sweaty hair that clings to Richard's temple with his free hand, the other buried blissfully deep, gently wriggling his fingers. Jared kisses Richard once, takes his florid erection in hand to bring him off. It happens fast. Richard tips his head back, his adam's apple bobbing, exposing his tender, vulnerable throat. He gasps and moans and swears and shouts, so beautifully, until he's exhausted all available sounds and simply opens his mouth wide and wordless. Richard digs short, unkempt fingernails into Jared's shoulder, and with a cry, tears leaking from his eyes, convulsing and clenching around Jared's hand, he ejaculates vigorously onto his chest and neck and stomach.

Jared leans down to lick it up.

When Richard is all tidied up, when his breathing has slowed to a reasonable pace, Jared carefully eases his hand out. He takes Richard in his arms. "I can hardly believe it," Jared proclaims, a bit theatrically. "Richard Hendricks! The belle of the ball, the Monet of Compressionism, slayer of kings and Piper of Pipers. And I get to have him all to myself." 

"Alright, settle down," Richard laughs, and drops a kiss to Jared's shoulder. Not-so-secretly, they both know he loves it.

_I'm lucky, I'm lucky_, Jared thinks.


End file.
